


a scattered dream

by nautilics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Inception AU, Limbo, M/M, Memory Alteration, Self-cest, inception-related levels of death, minor appearances by Seijou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/pseuds/nautilics
Summary: Tooru has a mission to complete, but limbo - and his shade - complicates things.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [inseaslikethat (Sotong_sotong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sotong_sotong/pseuds/inseaslikethat) in the [selfcestfest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/selfcestfest) collection. 



> (please excuse how much canon-handwaving goes on here. warning for non-graphic implied suicide, of the inception variety (dying in a dream wakes you up))
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Inception AU. What's it ever like to meet your own shade? Oikawa doesn't want to wonder but things happen, _dreams_ happen, and here they are instead, waiting for the kick.

There's always been a shadow dogging him, a half-glimpsed smile when Tooru turns not-quick-enough, a familiar flick of hair disappearing into the crowds. Tooru's never admitted it, but his team, as they do, noticed.

Hanamaki had drawn him aside, before this mission, a serious set to his eyes not often seen, probing carefully for what Tooru was willing to give (not much, except the promise that it wouldn’t jeopardise the mission, _I swear it, Makki_ , though that sure worked out well). Matsukawa had said nothing, but the careful weight of his gaze as they slipped through the first layer was as clear of a message as any - _be careful, don’t get in over your head, it doesn’t matter what it is because_ we’re here _._

Iwaizumi, in the fourth layer when it was just the two of them, after they’d argued and Tooru had _won_ (because he was _right,_ damn it, the only one who was in any fighting condition to dive down another layer was _him_ ), took his usual bullheaded approach.

“If you get lost down there in limbo,” Iwaizumi had said, while inserting the PASIV’s needle into the crook of Tooru’s elbow, “because of some _stupid_ deep, dark secret that you won’t even tell _me_ about, I’m not giving you the damn kick. Don’t forget your totem.”

Tooru had scoffed, patting the front pocket of his jeans where his totem sits, comforting as always. “I’m not some beginner, Iwa-chan. I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d promised, and crooked a smile. “Try not to bleed to death. Don’t make me haul your ugly ass out of limbo too, Iwa-chan.”

He catches the beginning of Iwaizumi’s retort, until the somnacin kicks in and he’s drifting asleep, falling and falling and falling and -

 

 

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, the same discomfort that Tooru experiences everyday, back home, whenever he sits down for breakfast. Tooru drums his fingers against the tabletop - because _that’s_ the same too, down to the finger-worn grooves by the edge - a symptom of frustration that he's never bothered letting go of.

He’s heard many tales about limbo, but he’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be _this_ , a near-perfect replica of his own apartment, because Tooru knows better (now) than to pull dreams from his own memories.

He drums his fingers again. Across the table, his reflection does the same, a heartbeat after his.

Tooru didn’t dream this, but perhaps, this - this double, did. The other Tooru - he recoils, internally, because _he’s_ the only Tooru he can allow - _Oikawa_ tilts his head, a patient smile as he watches Tooru.

He doesn’t have time for this. There’s a mission to complete, and time spins ever further out this many layers into the dream, a year for every second in the waking world, and Tooru has heard enough stories about limbo to know that he risks forgetting that he’s even dreaming at all.

“Bye,” he tells his double, the first and last words he’ll ever exchange with him. The chair scrapes as Tooru stands - _wrong,_ he thinks, because there’s a gaudy carpet under his table that Hanamaki hisses at every time he visits, and seems like Oikawa really is just a mere shade of the real, to miss this detail -

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, a familiar discomfort. Tooru drums his fingers against the table, scuffs a shoe against the eye-straining carpet, and calculates the distortion of time between the layers in his head.

“How long has it been?” Oikawa calls out, across the table as he always is, casual and harmless. Tooru hides a grimace, refusing to start wondering if his shade can read his mind now.

“Sick of me already?” Tooru shoots back.

Oikawa laughs. It’s a good laugh, assured with a dash of arrogance. Tooru’s spent years refining that for company that he wants to intimidate. “Not at all. I’d love to spend more time getting to know my dear self, but you’ve got a kick scheduled, hm?” Tooru’s eyes flick upwards, and Oikawa follows. “Iwa-chan’s getting ready, I bet.”

It sounds like a threat. Oikawa's hands are both resting on the table, loose and empty, but that means nothing in a dream, means nothing when it comes to him. His shade could shoot him in a heartbeat, stab him in half.

“There’s no point, you know,” Tooru tells him. “If you kill me here, Iwa-chan will just put me under again, and I won’t stop coming back till I finish the mission.”

The mission. The thought springs into his mind as he says the words, and he realises that he’d forgotten about it entirely until just then.

“Your precious mission, hm?” The knowing taunt in Oikawa’s words sets him on edge. “Go ahead. Nobody’s stopping you, right?”

Oikawa is eyeing him, a hungry look in his eyes, contrary to his words. Tooru stares back. _You won’t stop me,_ he thinks. He's going home. He’s finishing this mission, and he’s wrenching himself out of limbo and riding the kick all the way back home.

Oikawa's smile widens. “We'll see about that,” he coos.

 

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, and Tooru thinks, _he really needs to get new chairs_. This week is packed, though, with work and dinner meet-ups with old friends he hasn’t seen in years, but this weekend, perhaps -

“The movie marathon’s on this weekend, Tooru,” Oikawa says, a smile glinting on his face. Tooru nods, because how could he forget? It’s all of his favourite movies in a marathon special on TV, running nearly the whole weekend, and he’s got plans to stay in and watch it, socialising be damned. Tooru nods again, decisively, and wonders if it’s too early to start pulling out the blankets from his room to set up.

“It’s never too early for blanket forts,” Oikawa says sagely, ever the enabler, which is exactly why he’s the best roommate. Why would he ever want to leave, when he’s got the best roommate, the best blankets, the best apartment? “Get started, and I’ll go out and get the food. Can you toss me the keys?” Oikawa asks, by the front door (when did he even get up?), holding a hand out expectantly. Tooru misses the hungry slant of Oikawa’s eyes, too busy thinking about how he’ll rearrange the living room for the _best_ blanket fort ever, and he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and brushes against smooth plastic and, wait, that’s not his keys -

\- no, this is wrong, he’s got no _time_ for alien movies when there’s a mission to complete, this is -

“ _Wrong_ ,” Tooru gasps, jolting into awareness. He grips his totem in his pocket, the familiar shape an instant reminder. Oikawa’s eyes flicker to his hand, his smile turning displeased.

“Silly me,” Oikawa says, and the world stutters.

 

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, digging in _hard_ as Oikawa, a heavy weight on his lap, curls his fingers against his shoulders, hard enough to bruise.

“You,” Oikawa sneers - and isn’t that a funny sight to see outside of a mirror - and presses a kiss to his lips that sears. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?” His teeth scrape against Tooru’s lips as he speaks, and Tooru yelps. Oikawa swallows it like he’s starving. A hand slides into Tooru’s hair, cradling before it tightens, pulling his head back painfully enough that Tooru hisses. “You can’t even face your own mistakes. You’re pathetic,” Oikawa spits out.

There are tears glinting in the corners of Oikawa’s eyes, an anguish and hatred that Tooru can only distantly recall, a far-off memory of darker days. “Let me out,” Oikawa snarls, twisting his hands cruelly. “ _Let me out_!”

His scalp burns.

Tooru squeezes his eyes shut.

 

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, and Tooru lunges out of his seat, shoes scraping against the ugly carpet, diving for the window, because if he can get out there, he’ll get enough momentum for a kick to wake up, because _fuck_ the mission when things are this bad, and Oikawa is rising to stop him but Tooru is faster and he’s _there_ , wrenching the window open (it takes a few tries, because this stupid window always sticks, ever since that one time Iwa-chan slammed it too hard while shooing out a bee, and Tooru had laughed for _hours_ at how scared Iwa-chan had been and - focus, _focus_ ) -

\- and he’s staring out at the sky, Tokyo-grey and heavy with clouds in the middle of autumn, the breeze whipping his hair because he forgot to grab his beanie ( _focus_ ) and he hauls himself onto the sill, and this will _work_ , he’s sure, his apartment is on the 16th floor ( _focus_ ) and that’s more than enough height for the kick, even though being so high up sucks on days when he’s got groceries and the elevator’s broken, which is at least every other day ( _focus) -_

“Too slow, Tooru.” Oikawa’s voice drips in his ear, and Tooru falls.

 

 

 

The back of the chair presses against his shoulder blades, and someone is shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see Kunimi already winding up the IV lines of the PASIV, Kyoutani feigning sleep curled up in the window seat, Yahaba quietly checking Hanamaki for any lingering injuries and Matsukawa shuffling out of the train compartment with Kindaichi and Watari in tow as if they were never there to begin with.

Iwaizumi, at his side, shakes his shoulder again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Iwaizumi says. “At least you’re back. We’ll deal with the rest later, Tooru. Tooru?”


End file.
